Tauriel's duties at that time tormented her.
She could not leave the realm. Her responsibilities seemed to have been reduced solely to the prisoners, as if it were a punishment imposed without explanation. With each passing day, she felt as though she were paying for a crime she did not remember committing.
How she wished she had departed alongside Legolas and the Eldens on the mission to eradicate the source of the Scarlet Rot. But she had not been informed when they left. It was as if they did not want her there. This was confirmed later when she requested to be sent as a reinforcement, and the King rejected her plea without a second thought.
No. Her task now was different.
Every other day, she had to descend into the cells and administer punishment to the captive Elden King.
She did not understand what she had done to deserve this. Nor why she was required to be the one to execute such cruelty. Not even the victim himself would explain it to her.
On more than one occasion, she had stayed to speak with Miquella, before or after the lashings, when he was conscious. She wanted to understand him, to know who he truly was, why this was happening. But the Elden King always evaded the subject, diverting the conversation toward trivial, almost childish matters, as if he were nothing more than a bored child caught in a prison he couldn't quite take seriously.
It drove her to distraction.
She could not bear the task… yet she could not stop performing it. Something inside her pushed her to obey. An invisible, persistent pressure that made her bow her head and carry on, even when every fiber of her being screamed that it was wrong.
...
Tauriel found herself once again in Miquella's cell, as if she had never truly left. She shook the whip, making it crack in the air.
Then she realized the demigod was gone.
She was about to turn when she felt an icy whisper against her neck. And then, arms encircling her head.
"Does it hurt to do it… or does it hurt to obey? Do you enjoy hurting me?" the voice was like a murmur.
Her hand froze in mid-air. She felt tiny hands clutching her own, while another Miquella rubbed himself against the whip, suggestively licking the leather as if the weapon were an extension of his own desire.
"Your whip hurts, but I know it is your way of expressing love," the apparition whispered.
From the shadows emerged another Miquella, hugging her waist tightly and sliding his hands upward until he gripped her breasts in a possessive embrace.
"Even if it hurts... we long for your love..."
Tauriel's confusion turned to panic as the cell began to fill. Miquella after Miquella, all naked—some with skin of immaculate purity and others crisscrossed by the bloody marks of the lash—began to fill her vision. Their hands, pale and determined, reached out for her from every corner.
She tried to scream, but her voice died, stifled by an embrace that was as gentle as it was painful. Soon, her field of vision was devoured by flesh; she was being drowned by a tide of naked bodies, a legion of Miquellas pressing in from every side. She felt the air leave her lungs as the weight of the divine crowd submerged her in absolute darkness, crushing her under the weight of a twisted adoration.
...
Tauriel woke with a start in her bed. Her chest burned. Air rushed into her lungs as if she had just emerged from water.
It was another dream. Another nightmare.
In recent days, they had become far too frequent—a clear reflection of how affected she was by her current labors… and perhaps something else. Something that walked between dreams, watching, pulling strings to corrupt her.
She had consulted the elven healers, but they all agreed: stress, exhaustion, accumulated guilt. Yet she felt it was darker. More intentional. Like a slow, subtle curse. Some dreams were so disturbing they made her doubt her own sanity. She was an elf. Her mind should be strong... not dominated by carnal desires... right?
In any case, since having those "intense" dreams, she had reduced her contact with Miquella, which only made her feel worse... but she feared that what happened in her dreams might become real.
And yet, another day arrived. Another day where she would have to see him. Another day where she would have to cause him pain.
She didn't know if she was becoming desensitized… or if it was affecting her more each time.
With the whip in hand and a vacant gaze, she walked from her quarters toward the cells. The realm was submerged in a strange, heavy, almost oppressive silence. Or perhaps it was only so for her.
Normally, the dwarves never missed a chance to insult her, to scream at her for what she did, reinventing offenses in every language they knew. But today they were quiet. Too quiet.
And for once, it was a relief. The silence made the process more mechanical, easier to execute without thinking.
She arrived at Miquella's cell. She closed her eyes for an instant, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
She stopped dead. The cell was empty.
Her heart skipped a beat. She looked around, incredulous, and stepped out into the hallway to check that she was at the correct cell. She looked inside again. Nothing.
For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming, that this was another nightmare. But then she reacted.
The silence.
She ran toward the dwarves' cells. Empty. All of them. The air seemed to leave her lungs as she realized the truth.
They had escaped.
...
Miquella, Leda, and the dwarves followed Bilbo, who had obtained the keys and opened the cell doors without raising suspicion. The time had come to escape.
Together they descended toward the cellars. The dwarves could not hide their relief at seeing Miquella on his feet, apparently well despite the punishments they had witnessed over the last weeks. Amid whispers and worried glances, they were quick to ask him what had really happened. They found it strange that Miquella had accepted such a deal… and even stranger that Leda had not intervened.
Miquella limited himself to vague excuses: that he had angered the Elven King, that they had to wait for the right moment, that escaping earlier would have been dangerous. They were not satisfying answers, but there was no time to press further.
Upon reaching the cellar—much less guarded than it should have been, courtesy of Thranduil himself—Bilbo led them to a row of large barrels lined up next to a hatch.
"Everyone into the barrels," Bilbo whispered, after ensuring no one was watching.
Miquella did not hesitate. He already knew this part of the story, and with a childlike smile, he climbed into one of the barrels as if it were a game. Leda followed him into the adjacent barrel. Unlike the others, her build made it a tight fit; she was left uncomfortable, but it would work.
Seeing them, the dwarves didn't think twice and climbed into the barrels as well. With everyone inside, Bilbo pulled the lever. The barrels rolled off the platform and tumbled into the underground river.
"Weeee…!" Miquella's cheerful voice could be heard as they began to float away.
...
"My King! The prisoners have escaped!"
Tauriel burst into the throne room, her voice heavy with worry… and also a slight relief she could not entirely hide.
The disappearance of the prisoners was alarming, but a part of her felt at peace knowing Miquella would no longer have to suffer by her hand. She even briefly regretted not waiting a few moments longer before raising the alarm. Her duty to the King and the realm was more important than her feelings. Or at least, that's what she told herself.
Deep down, she knew she had chosen to notify Thranduil personally instead of initiating the search immediately and sending a messenger, as was proper. And she felt something else: a strange sense of loss knowing she would not see that prisoner again—the one she had tormented for two weeks—as if she had grown accustomed to his presence.
"How… unfortunate," Thranduil replied with absolute calm, showing no trace of surprise.
Everything had been foreseen. Spies had observed the escape from the start, and the King was fully aware of every step. Suddenly, Thranduil's expression hardened. He turned his face slightly, as if hearing a distant whisper.
"Lead a few squads toward the river," he commanded solemnly. "Orcs are invading our lands."
Tauriel responded with a firm bow, accepting the order. For the first time in days, she felt relief: finally, a real mission, one where she could move, fight, and breathe without the constant oppression of the cells. Furthermore, the King did not seem especially concerned about the prisoners.
But her relief was short-lived.
"Once the orcs are eliminated," Thranduil added before she could withdraw, "ensure you capture the prisoners and bring them back."
Tauriel paused for just a second.
"And if you cannot bring them back…" the King continued in a cold, almost contemptuous tone, "do not even bother coming back yourself."
A chill ran down Tauriel's spine. For a moment she wanted to turn, to question her King, to demand explanations. But she didn't. Her expression hardened, her mind focused, and she simply resumed her pace to gather the squads.
From his throne, Thranduil watched her depart and then leaned back slowly, thoughtful. He had fulfilled what the Elden King had asked of him. Whatever happened next… was no longer his concern.
...
When Legolas and the elves returned to the realm, they did so as victors… but alone. Carrying only the bodies of the fallen.
At some point on the journey back, the Eldens had separated without explanation. Legolas did not stop them. He was deeply grateful to those strange allies. He and many of his men had suffered the effects of the Scarlet Rot during the battle, but after the creature fell, they could all feel the evil weakening its grip on their bodies. It had not vanished entirely, but enough to confirm that the victory had been worth the cost. Many lives would be saved because of it.
Legolas went immediately to report to his father. Thranduil received him with satisfaction, especially upon hearing the news of the mission's success. The King, however, could not help but notice how perfectly calculated everything seemed: the escape of the prisoners, his son's return, the orc invasion. Too many pieces fitting together with too much precision. One more detail to keep in mind regarding the Elden King.
When Legolas learned of the escape, the orcs, and that Tauriel had gone after the prisoners, he decided to act. He wanted to go to the aid of the Eldens as payment for what they had done.
Thranduil opposed him. He wanted his son to stay, organizing the armies for the coming battle. It was then that he revealed part of the truth: the Elden King's plans, the hidden agreements, what was truly happening behind the shadows.
Legolas listened in silence, surprised… but not convinced. This time, he decided to be rebellious.
Since the excuse of commanding reinforcements did not work, he slipped away on his own from the medical ward, still wounded. Before leaving, he took one of the small golden needles—gifts from Miquella to the elven realm—and applied it carefully before sneaking out of the hospital. He then left in secret, armed only with his bow, his quiver, and the elven sword he had taken from Thorin.
He was going to fight. He was going to help the elf he had fallen in love with. He was going to seek his own destiny outside that kingdom… and prove his worth.